


The 5th of November

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Nostos [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 02:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5074219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Ah, John.”  Mycroft looked relieved at the distraction.  “There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent.”</i>
</p><p>  <i>John winced.  “Can’t you ever say something normal, like ‘good morning’?”</i></p><p>A faked suicide, a two year absence, a reconciliation and a new relationship as a result.  Now there was a secret underground network on the loose in London, and John was more concerned about what was happening in his bedroom.  Or not, as the case may be.</p><p>Follows the Nostos series, but can be read as first case post-Reichenbach reunion one-shot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Case

John woke up in Sherlock’s bed in Baker Street for the second time. Again, alone. They’d celebrated their first full day back in London with dinner at Angelo’s the evening before. It had been Sherlock’s first outing since he’d returned just over a week before battered, painfully thin and rapidly ill with pneumonia, and a few glasses of wine had gone straight to his head. In retrospect, John had to admit going out hadn’t been the best idea, but at the time he’d been unable to say no.

It was only just eight o’clock in the morning and John didn’t feel like he’d been in bed alone for long-- Sherlock must have slipped out recently. Rolling over held some appeal, but he was awake and it wasn’t particularly early. Reluctantly, John slipped out of bed and into the cooler air of the flat, quickly pulling on his jeans from the night before and a jumper. Just as he was about to open the bedroom door, he realised there were voices in the front room. 

Mycroft, recognisable although slightly muffled, “All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to critical.”

_Critical terror alert?_ John paused at the door handle and wondered when that could have happened, and why Mycroft had stopped by so early in the morning as a result. 

“Bo-ring.” John could sense the eyeroll in the sing-song word from Sherlock. There was a soft click only barely audible through the door. “Your move.” Move? Were they playing a game?

“We have solid information.” Mycroft again, voice growling in barely contained frustration with his younger brother. “An attack _is_ coming.”

Sherlock scoffed in reply, “ _Solid information_. A secret terrorist organisation is planning an attack – that’s what secret terrorist organisations do, isn’t it? It’s their version of golf.”

There was thunder in Mycroft’s tone although he didn’t raise his voice. Perhaps he assumed John was still asleep. “An agent gave his life to tell us that.”

“Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn’t’ve done. He was obviously just trying to show off.”

There was a pause as Mycroft presumably collected himself before he said, “None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?” There was the same very faint click as before. “Your move.” Chess, thought John, they must have the chess set out.

”No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I’ll find the answer. It’ll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced lonely hearts ad.” There was the briefest of pauses, a click, and then, “Your move.”

“I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case.”

“I am on the case. We’re both on the case. Look at us right now.”

There was a loud buzzing noise that John couldn’t place and Mycroft’s angry exclamation, “Oh, bugger!”

“Oopsie!” Sherlock crowed in delight, “Can’t handle a broken heart: how _very_ telling.”

John decided that sounded like his cue to interrupt, jerked the bedroom door open and briskly walked into the front room. Whatever he’d expected to find, it was not the two brothers looking like guilty schoolboys with a child’s toy on the table in front of them.

“Ah, John.” Mycroft looked relieved at the distraction. “There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent.”

John winced. “Can’t you ever say something normal, like ‘good morning’?” 

Sherlock snorted, but Mycroft managed to ignore him and look ever so slightly chastened. “Apologies. I trust your journey back to London yesterday was pleasant?”

“It was, thanks for the car.” John wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of tea from the still warm pot. He returned to the front room and perched on the desk chair, taking a sip of his tea before asking, “So what is this about an underground terrorist threat?”

“I’m afraid that’s all we know at this time.”

“Really?” John blinked. “That doesn’t really qualify as intelligence, does it?”

Sherlock opened his mouth eagerly, ready to comment, but Mycroft cut him off, “Nevertheless, the threat is real and we must respond in kind. Following the recent news coverage the Prime Minister is very keen to ensure Sherlock is on the case as well.” Mycroft looked down and brushed an invisible crumb off his jacket as he admitted, “as am I.”

John frowned as he said, “No offense, Mycroft, but we’re not really up for running all over London right now.” 

Sherlock gave what could most charitably be called an indignant squawk at John’s assertion, but the others ignored him.

The elder Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgment of John’s point as he said, “I know, and I have protested as much. But I have to ask you to do what you can.”

John nodded, sharply, in acquiescence. He didn’t like it, but he did understand.

Mycroft looked relieved as he got to his feet and collected his ever present umbrella from beside the chair as he said, “I’ll be in touch.” He paused at the door of the flat and gave them both one last inscrutable look. “Good morning.”

Sherlock threw a parting shot of, “blud,” at Mycroft’s back.

Thank God for tea. John took another gulp before he felt awake enough to tackle this one: “So there’s an underground terrorist network planning an attack in London?”

“Evidently.” Sherlock didn’t even look at him, fingers already steepled under his chin.

“And you’re going to try and help track it down?”

“Yes.” Sherlock closed his eyes and appeared to be withdrawing into his mind palace.

“But your markers are all…” Remembering the previous morning, John didn’t want to upset Sherlock so he rephrased, “Do you have tabs on things in London at the moment that will help?”

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped back open. “I need to find more of my network. I reactivated some yesterday, but we need a courier.” He held out a hand, imperiously, “Hand me my phone.”

“What?” This was sounding ominously like Sherlock had a job in mind for John, and it wasn’t one he thought he’d enjoy accepting.

“Or your phone.” Sherlock snapped his fingers impatiently, “A phone, John, a phone!”

“Right, here!” John quickly passed over Sherlock’s phone from where it had been sitting on the edge of the desk, then settled back into his chair with a grunt.

Texting rapidly, Sherlock smiled, but there was an almost feral edge to it. “We need Wiggins.”

A palpable relief flowed through John and he took another sip of tea to hide the reaction. Evidently he was not going to be roped in as ‘courier’ after all. “Who is Wiggins?”

“Drug addict. Noted talent for chemistry and keen powers of observation. He can get tails on all my rats.” Text completed, Sherlock dropped his phone onto the abandoned game of Operation with a clatter. “There. That should get things started nicely.” With that, he steepled his fingers under his chin again and John was summarily dismissed.

 

The information had started flowing in shortly after lunchtime in a constant buzzing of Sherlock's mobile and several soft knocks at the front door. The consulting detective was in his element and John could only step aside for the whirlwind pinning photos and maps to Mrs Hudson's wallpaper. While Sherlock muttered to himself, John made pot after pot of tea until the afternoon stretched into the evening and it became clear the game was, very much, on. 

John ordered himself a takeaway and selected a few sides that might tempt Sherlock, then settled in with a book. By the time the meal arrived Sherlock had begun to cross off some of the photos pinned to the wall with a flourish that John suspected was intended to grab his attention.

"Sherlock." John held up the bag from the Royal China, "dinner is ready." Sherlock was back on the sofa, frozen in place as he sorted through deductions in his mind. “Oi!” 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he blinked rapidly several times before focusing on John. “What?”

“Dinner.” The bag dangled between them like a gauntlet.

“Not hungry.” 

“No.”

Sherlock twitched slightly in surprise. “No?”

“No, you don’t get to do this, Sherlock. I have ordered us food and you will come, and you will sit down, and you _will_ eat some dinner.” There was an undeniable edge of Captain Watson in his voice.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t make me.”

“No, but I can confiscate your mobile until you do.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the phone balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. He licked his lips, then darted out a hand and tucked the device into this dressing gown pocket. “No, you can’t.”

Exasperated, John gave the bag a violent jerk and said, “I can text your brother and tell him to _block_ your mobile until you’ve eaten.”

“You wouldn’t.”

John’s nostrils flared. “Watch me.”

“He wouldn’t.” There was the faintest air of desperation creeping into Sherlock’s voice. “He wants this solved. Mycroft needs me on this case.”

John shook his head as he said, “He also knows you’re not properly well yet. He’d agree with me on this one, and you know it.” There was a silent stand off for several long seconds. A muscle in Sherlock’s jaw twitched and John took pity. “I got the chili beef thing you like.” The detective’s glower lightened ever so slightly so he added, “And the garlic broccoli.”

There was another brief stalemate, and then Sherlock swept to his feet, walked over the coffee table and into the kitchen with a swish of silk. John hid a smile and set about pulling boxes out of the bag and onto the table.

Sherlock had in fact eaten more than John expected before dropping his chopsticks with a shower of rice and crispy beef and vaulting back into the front room to scribble something on his map. John cleared away the rest of the meal, then put an Attenborough documentary he’d been meaning to watch. When the programme eventually drew to a close Sherlock was still enrapt in his data, and John suspected it would be a more difficult battle to win than dinner had been.

“Are you coming to bed?”

Sherlock surfaced from his mobile where he had been firing off rapid texts and frowned. “I’m working, John.”

“I know. Are you coming to bed?”

“I can’t stop now. One of my homeless network has followed two of my markers to a burlesque club they only use when laundering money. It’s a good lead.”

“Alright.” Sherlock looked surprised by the acquiescence and John smiled. He stood up, stretched, then walked over a planted a quick kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly before he swallowed and said, “I’ll try to sleep later.” 

"Mmmmm." John's skepticism was plain, but he allowed a fondness to creep into his tone. He bent down and snagged a second quick kiss before heading into the bathroom, throwing a "don't shoot any holes in the walls if you get stuck" over his shoulder as he shut the door.

The new bed was larger than Sherlock’s old one. John stretched out, enjoying the high threadcount sheets, more luxurious than anything he’d ever owned, and thick blanket. The windows in the flat were single pane and old enough that a faint warping was detectable where the glass had flowed. Early November was properly cold enough that socks to bed were around the corner. Or, he imagined, if Sherlock would join him in bed maybe they could keep each other warm. Faint noises continued from the front room as he fell asleep.

John woke with a gasp, heart hammering and bile high in his throat. There were hands on his shoulders and he thrashed reflexively, a pained gasp telling him he’d hit his mark. He reared back to be able to throw a punch, even in the dark, and a voice said, “John!” Sherlock’s voice.

“Sherlock?” He found he was almost panting; it was as if he’d been running.

“I heard you, so I came in.” Sherlock stayed back, out of range of a blow, but in the light from the open doorway John could just make out the crease between his eyebrows, deeply furrowed. “You were having a nightmare.”

The words sunk in and John forced himself to relax his hand, heart still treacherously pounding. He sucked in a whooping breath of air and was mortified to find his eyes felt wet. Even in the dim light, Sherlock wouldn’t have missed a detail like that. A tentative hand on his cheek made him jump, scarcely aware that he’d closed his eyes. Sherlock’s hand gently brushed over his cheek, the other man sliding closer along the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry.” John managed, batting Sherlock’s hand away to swipe at his own eyes. “I’ve distracted you. Sorry.” He took a deliberate breath, relieved to feel his heart slowing. “I’m fine now.” Waving a hand at the open door he said, “You can go back to it. I’ll be fine.”

Instead of leaving as John expected, Sherlock frowned. He seemed to be struggling with something for a second, before he simply said, “No.”

“No?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock ushered John over, pulling back the covers and slipping into the bed. The lanky detective put his height to use, almost curling around John as if he was another blanket. It felt glorious.

Heart finally slowed and breaths coming normally, John didn’t think he could feel more comfortable… except, “the light’s still on in the hall.” John regretted the words as soon as he said them.

There was a puff of breath on the back of his neck as Sherlock softly said, “So close your eyes.”

John couldn’t argue with that.

# # # # # # # 

The scent of tea was the first thing John was aware of the next morning. He blinked sleepily, opening his eyes properly to find Sherlock perched on the side of the bed already fully dressed. “Sherlock? What time is it?”

A hot mug was thrust into John’s hands. “Time to get up. A client came by with something he thought I’d find interesting.” With that, Sherlock spun on his heel and strode back into the front room.

John drank his tea, resigned to another morning waking up alone. Eventually joining Sherlock in the front room he found a knit hat perched on the arm of the sofa and the detective hunched over his laptop.

“Look at this, John.” Sherlock reset the video and John watched that appeared to be underground surveillance footage as Sherlock narrated, “Friday night, Westminster station, around half twelve in the morning, the last train of the night. This man gets into the last car and then at St James’...”

“He’s gone?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock watched John’s face closely as he thought.

There was only one explanation for the footage. “Did he get off?”

“Well he’s obviously not on the train, but safety mechanisms would keep him from opening doors in transit.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“That’s where it gets very interesting.” Sherlock pointed at the wall over their heads and John twisted to see the photos pinned up.

The profile was familiar somehow, but hard to place. “I know him, don’t I?”

“Lord Moran: peer of the realm, Minister for Overseas Development.” Sherlock waved a hand in the air. “Pillar of the establishment.”

“Yes.” John knew he’d recognised him from news reports somewhere.

Sherlock gave in ironic smile and continued, “He’s been working for North Korea since 1996.”

“What?” John had always thought Moran looked credible on the news. Credible and safe.

“He’s the big rat: Rat Number One. And he’s just done something very suspicious indeed.”

“Yeah, that’s,” John paused, but settled for, “ odd.” He frowned at the puzzle, “There’s nowhere he could have got off?” He picked up the knit hat and turned it over in his hands as he thought. It had earflaps, and long dangling strings.

“Not according to the maps. Watch out for the left bobble.” Sherlock’s phone chimed and he picked it up, reading the text with a look of satisfaction. “Lestrade: he’s got something he wants us to look at.”

“Do you need me?” John dropped the hat back onto the sofa, having found the offensive bobble. “I had some things to take care of today: I need to go to the letting agent. Get my name off the flat, the council tax, that sort of thing.” 

Of course, thought Sherlock, the flat with Mary. Disappointed, he said, “No, no, that’s fine. You go ahead. I’ll text you if anything particularly interesting comes up.”

“Good. Yeah, thanks.” John was relieved; the sooner he could get everything with Mary put to bed the better he would feel. They hadn’t spoken at all since the day Sherlock came back. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t need to speak with her today either.

The main office of the letting agent was in Shepherd’s Bush, so John decided a walk to Marble Arch would clear his head and save him a considerable cab fare. How Sherlock could afford to be driven everywhere was beyond him. There was a cold breeze on Baker Street and he jammed his gloved hands more deeply into his pockets as he walked. Sorting out the flat today would really be the end of it. John couldn’t quite wrap his head around how much his life had changed in just two short weeks: from being about to propose to Mary, to being back at Baker Street and very much together with Sherlock. 

Sherlock: well, that was a turn up, to be sure. He was in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. And people knew about it, he added to himself, still somewhat in shock. Well, he amended, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Angelo knew about it, and Greg might suspect. God help him when the army boys heard, he’d never hear the end of it. _Always thought I’d caught your eye on me backside, Watson!_ They wouldn’t really care. No, not really. Not even Sholto. But there would be teasing he didn’t think he was ready for, no matter what Sherlock said.

Not that anything had really _happened_ either. In Suffolk, and in London, Sherlock seemed to have mastered the art of having just a little too much to drink in the evening and then vanishing by the morning. That wasn’t strictly fair, of course, with only a handful of days to go on. But in the deductions line of work a handful was dangerously close to a pattern that John didn’t want to see established. Was Sherlock nervous? Embarrassed? Had he lied about what happened to him in Belarus? That was, of course, the worst possible explanation for the detective’s behaviour, and one John didn’t want to have to consider. He resigned himself to the fact that some sort of horribly uncomfortable talk was likely going to have to take place.

A man pushed past him roughly, banging into his shoulder. Distracted, he didn’t hear the second set of footfalls behind him until there was a sharp pinch at his neck and an arm wrapping around him from behind. Drugs. He was being drugged.

John tried to reach up with his hand to get the thing away from his neck, even as his knees began to fold under him.


	2. The Bonfire

What a waste. _How I did it, by Jack the Ripper_? It was a wonder they solved anything at Scotland Yard. Still, it had been good to see Lestrade. For a straightforward hoax he hadn’t bothered to text John until it was over and he was stopping by the chip shop in Marylebone. There had been no answer when he’d asked if John wanted something as well. 

Sherlock dragged another chip through his ketchup and considered. Perhaps John had run into Mary at the letting agent? Perhaps he’d made plans to see her, and that was why he’d been keen to head off on his own that morning? The sooner the woman was out of John’s life the better. His phone buzzed with a text alert and he juggled the styrofoam container of chips to fish it out of his coat pocket.

Save souls now!  
John or James Watson?

Saint or Sinner?  
James or John?  
The more is Less?

Sherlock frowned in confusion. Unbidden, his mind set to work and the pattern emerged.

_Save_ souls now!  
 _John_ or James _Watson_?

_Saint_ or Sinner?  
 _James_ or John?  
 _The_ more is _Less_?

The chips tumbled to the carpet and he clattered down the stairs into the road. Saint James the Less. _Saint James the Less_. Twenty minutes by car. Too slow. A motorcycle approached and he stepped into the road, already pulling out the badge of Lestrade’s that he’d nicked that afternoon.

The motorcycle flew over the damp streets, barely staying upright as he cornered. _Too slow too slow too slow_ pounded in his head alongside his hammering heart. Where was bloody Mycroft at a time like this, when he could actually be useful rather than annoying? There was no time to text his brother. He pulled up by the churchyard and spared a second to yank his phone from his pocket.

What a shame  
Mr Holmes.  
John is quite a Guy!

Oh my God. Sherlock’s mind stuttered to a halt at the words. There was a roaring cheer from the churchyard as the bonfire caught and then a child began to scream. Sherlock gunned the throttle and sailed over the kerb, almost losing control in the wet grass and leaves as he dropped the bike and sprinted through the crowd, tearing off the helmet as he went. The flames were high, but not yet too hot. It had only just started to catch. He yelled John’s name as he tore at the wood, frantic. The rest of the crowd was paralysed in shock and unable to help. There was suddenly cloth under his hands and he grabbed and pulled, hauling John out of the bonfire and onto the grass.

The other man was dazed or drugged, a tacky patch of nearly dry blood crusting one side of his face. “John?” He patted John’s face until hooded eyes managed to open halfway and fix on his face. In the distance he could hear a siren… evidently one person in the crowd was less of an idiot and had managed to phone 999. Rocking back on his haunches in relief, he pulled out his phone again and dashed off an angry text, _What use is your surveillance if John is almost killed?_

There was a brief pause, then his phone buzzed, _Where are you?_ The first message was swiftly followed without waiting for a reply, _I’ll meet you at the hospital_

The sirens came closer and suddenly there were ambulance personnel there, pulling him away from John and trying to put a ridiculous orange blanket around his shoulders. He fought them off, only to find that his knees did feel weaker than they should when he tried to stand. 

Mycroft met him at the hospital, after John had been whisked away through a closed set of doors for tests. For once, Sherlock had to admit he was a welcome presence. His brother had even apologised, offering that everyone was deployed on the terrorist threat, which they hadn’t made any progress on. He’d slipped Sherlock a single cigarette, and stayed until it was clear John was not only going to be fine, but would be released that night with instructions to rest at home. Whatever they’d dosed him with was apparently rapidly wearing off, and might not even be identifiable in a toxicology screen.

It was after midnight by the time they made it back to Baker Street, Sherlock helping John up the stairs despite his protest that he was fine. The cigarette from Mycroft was put, as yet unsmoked, on the mantlepiece and then Sherlock busied himself making tea, too wound up to sleep and assuming John felt the same after his brush with death.

John sat in Sherlock’s chair, keeping a line of sight on the kitchen as Sherlock fussed, washing mugs more thoroughly than he’d washed anything before. He realised Sherlock kept stealing glances at him when he thought he wasn’t observed. “Sherlock?”

“Do you want the usual, or something decaffeinated? I know you normally don’t go for caffeine right before bed and I’m sure there’s something here.” Without waiting for a response, he threw open a cupboard door and began to noisily rummage around.

“Sherlock, stop.” John stood and waited until the cupboard door was closed and he had the detective’s full attention to say, “I’m fine.” Sherlock stiffened, one hand gripping John’s regimental mug on the counter. John held out one hand, placatingly. “It was a close call, but I’m fine.”

Sherlock made a noise that was almost a sob and then he was across the room and on John like a hurricane and, oh God, thought John, he’d never have expected this. There was one hand holding the back of his head in place as Sherlock kissed him fiercely and one arm around his back pulling him almost onto his tiptoes. John could barely catch a breath as he felt himself being manhandled across the room and down the hall to the bedroom, but wasn’t about to protest the treatment. Sherlock almost shoved him into the room backwards and he stumbled as the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed. 

Breathing roughly, Sherlock pulled back and gasped, “Is this alright?” John took a whooping breath and nodded, and then Sherlock was pushing him down backwards with mumbled words that sounded like, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” And then Sherlock’s hands were on him and his _mouth_ was on him and there wasn’t anything John could do but succumb to the force of nature that was Sherlock Holmes on a mission.

# # # # # # # 

John woke slowly the next morning. He was firstly aware of the fact that the bed felt deliciously warm. Then, that there was an arm around his chest, and what felt like a bare torso pressed against his side. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock almost disconcertingly close, and wide-awake eyes trained on his face. The detective broke into a smile and John thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Sherlock’s voice was even deeper than usual with its first use of the day, “Morning.”

John felt an answering smile on his face and he said, “Good morning.” There was a distant rumble and a tiny shower of dust from the ceiling caught in the light from the window. He hadn’t realised Sherlock could just barely feel the Jubilee line in his room. Slowly, a thought crystallised in his mind and he said, “Sherlock?”

“Mmmm?” Sherlock sounded deeply satisfied, and loathe to do anything that could bring about a start to the day.

“You know how you were teasing Mycroft about his terrible intelligence? That it was completely nebulous?”

“Mmmm.” The detective’s brain was clearly not yet engaged.

“Well, what if it was actually very specific?”

It took Sherlock less than half a second. “Oh. Oh!” He surged upwards and then rounded on John. “That is brilliant, John! Brilliant! I’ve been completely blind. It’s not an underground network… it’s an _underground network_.” Throwing back the covers he bolted from the bed naked, barely pausing to snag his dressing gown on the way to the front room.

John threw back the covers on his own side of the bed, but paused long enough to dress properly. The remnants of the night before were scattered across the room: trousers, sock, dress shirt… John peered at a scrap of something white on the floor; had Sherlock actually _ripped_ his vest off him?

The radio was on in the front room, something about an all-night sitting in Parliament to review new anti-terrorism legislation. It was already half-eleven; after the ordeal the night before John had been in need of a lie-in, and who knew what to make of Sherlock’s sleep patterns at the best of times.

“Sometimes a deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can’t see it even when it’s staring you in the face.” Sherlock spun the laptop around to face John. “Watch.” He pressed play and narrated, “Seven compartments leave Westminster, but only six compartments arrive at St James’s Park.” 

John frowned at the screen in confusion, “But that’s… I mean… it’s impossible!” 

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard John, “Moran didn’t disappear… the entire tube compartment did. The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last car.”

“Detached it where?! You said there was nothing between those stations.”

“Not on the maps, but once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing remaining must be the truth.” He whirled around from where he’d been pacing and pointed a finger accusingly at the screen, “That carriage vanished, so it must be somewhere.”

“But why, though? Why detach it in the first place?”

“It vanishes between St James’s Park and Westminster. Lord Moran vanishes. You’re kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks part…” Sherlock froze, eyes wide, then turned slowly to John. “What’s the date, John? Today’s date?”

“November the..” John swallowed convulsively and instead of finishing exclaimed, “Oh my God.”

Sherlock stalked back towards the wall where he’d pinned his maps and pictures. “Lord Moran: he’s a peer of the realm. Normally he’d sit in the House. Tonight there’s an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he pieced it together aloud, “But he won’t be there. Not tonight.” He turned slightly to address John directly, “Not the fifth of November.”

“Remember, remember.” John murmured the childhood words in an almost singsong.

Sherlock finished, “Gunpowder, treason and plot.”

They had used every map they could find, new and old, Skyped Sherlock’s underground obsessed client and finally resorted to listing street names off a map on a hunch that things below ground tend to be named after what is above ground. Finally, Sherlock practically devoured the cigarette from Mycroft and with his head still wreathed in smoke stabbed at a map and uttered the fateful name: Sumatra Road. It was right underneath Parliament.


	3. Making a Point

It was after five o’clock by the time they made it to Westminster: the sun had set and and the session was already underway. They hadn’t spoken during the cab ride; Sherlock had been dipping in and out of his mind palace as he assembled the final facts. John paid the driver and clambered out of the cab to find Sherlock already halfway to the nearest station entrance. The primary rush of civil servants leaving work was over, but there was a steady flow of people entering and exiting the station.

Dodging people, John almost jogged to keep up with Sherlock’s long stride as he said, “So it’s a bomb then? The tube carriage is carrying a bomb.”

“Must be.” Sherlock didn’t slow or even look anywhere but ahead, already focused on the task.

“Right.” John pulled off his glove and took out his phone, getting as far as unlocking it before Sherlock noticed.

The detective did turn back then in a swirl of Belstaff as he demanded, “What are you doing?”

“Calling the police.”

“What? No!” Sherlock sounded almost betrayed that John would do such a thing, continuing on along the tunnel.

John, for his part, couldn’t believe the objection, given the circumstances. “Sherlock, this isn’t a game. They need to evacuate Parliament.” The tunnel branched and he followed Sherlock down the left one towards the Jubilee line. If Sherlock weren’t so cab obsessed they could have taken the tube and saved the fare.

Dismissing John’s concerns with a wave of his hands, he said. “They’ll get in the way. They always do. This is cleaner, more efficient.” He stopped at a ventilation grid and pulled out a small crowbar, forcing the hatch open.

John groaned to himself. “And illegal.”

“A bit.” Sherlock conceded, pulling the hatch open wide and then closing it behind them.

Flicking on his torch and taking out his phone as he hurried after Sherlock, John just managed to see his last bar of signal vanish into a ‘no service’ logo. “Damn,” 

At last, and some awkward shuffling through maintenance passages and deep underground, they emerged on the platform of Sumatra Road. There was a desolate strip of track vanishing into the tunnel, but nothing else. Sherlock shone his torch one way, than the other, sounding almost lost as he said, “I don’t understand.”

Exasperated with the other man’s behaviour, John spat out, “Well, that’s a first!” He was almost relieved there was nothing to find-- what on earth would they do if a bomb suddenly turned up?

The other man ignored John completely as he talked to himself. “There’s nowhere else it could be…” Retreating into his mind palace, Sherlock imagined Westminster, and a tube car sitting in a tunnel deep underground. How would it work? How would it work, he asked himself as he imagined sitting in the tube car as it exploded, the shock running along the tunnel and then up… “Oh!” He sprinted to the end of the platform, John hot on his heels.

Sherlock jumped off the platform onto the tracks and John baulked. “Hang on, Sherlock!”

“What?”

The rails shone dully in the light from John’s torch. The station may be abandoned, but, “Aren't they live?”

“Perfectly safe as long as we avoid touching the rails.” He set off down the tracks at a run and John jumped gingerly down behind him.

“Of course, yeah, avoid the rails. Great.” There wasn’t much space between them. “Just great, Sherlock.” 

From ahead, came the detective’s voice, “This way!”

“You sure?” John liked this less and less.

“Sure!” The gravel between the rails crunched underfoot as they made their way down the tunnel. After perhaps a hundred yards at most Sherlock stopped and shone his torch upwards, having found the access to the surface. “John,” he said, softly.

John followed the beam of light and, swallowing, found his mouth had gone dry at the sight above. “Demolition charges.” There were at least a dozen of them; enough to blow the whole place to kingdom come.

Continuing on, they rounded a slight bend and the missing car appeared. John held his breath as Sherlock tried the door and entered, then followed the other man inside.

Standard tube car: rough fabric upholstery, advertisements, the only notable fact that it was devoid of rubbish, chewing gum or graffiti. "It's empty." John spun around on the spot in confusion, "there's nothing."

"Isn't there?" Sherlock's eyes flicked around the compartment, deducing as he went until there was one inescapable conclusion: "This is a bomb."

"What?" John followed the light of Sherlock's torch and saw what the detective had already observed: a twist of wires running along the ceiling and vanishing into the cushions. 

Sherlock peeled back a seat cushion with a tearing noise, exposing explosives and electronics underneath. "It’s not _carrying_ explosives. The whole compartment is the bomb."

John pulled up a cushion to see for himself, and sure enough there was the same configuration. "Oh, God." What were they doing here? The two of them, he thought, seriously, what? Never before had he felt so out of his element with Sherlock. This was not good.

A footstep revealed a loose panel in the floor. Sherlock carefully prised it up and found what was unmistakably the firing mechanism, compete with a timer set to two and half minutes. "John."

John looked down and froze. "We need bomb disposal."

Sherlock looked up from where he was crouched on the floor. There were warring emotions on his face that John didn't want to begin to try to interpret. "There may not be time for that now."

Oh yes, more than a bit not good. "So what do we do?"

Sherlock paused, thinking, then offered, "I have no idea."

This was not happening. John took a breath to keep himself from shouting and growled out, "Well, think of something."

"Why d’you think I know what to do?" The bastard had the gall to sound put-upon.

"Because you’re Sherlock Holmes." This could definitely not be happening. John waved an arm at the other man, "You’re as clever as it gets."

"That doesn’t mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "What about you?"

"I wasn’t in bomb disposal. I’m a bloody doctor." It figures, thought John, it figures they'd go out in a blazing argument brought on by a truly spectacular bought of hubris on Sherlock's part.

Sherlock pointed his torch accusingly at John as he said, "And a soldier," impersonating John's accent on the title, "as you keep reminding us all."

The timer was still showing two and a half minutes. John scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to come up with something. Anything. "Can’t we rip the timer off?"

Sherlock’s tone was as if he were talking to a particularly slow child. "That would set it off."

"You see?!" An accusation was ripe in John’s tone, "You do know things!" The was a loud clicking noise and the lights came on in the carriage. Before John could wonder if it was all over there was a second click and the lights on the detonators changed as the timer began to count down. "Oh my God."

Sherlock jerked away from the detonator and rose to his feet looking closer to panic than John had ever seen him before. The detective made a distressed noise in the back of his throat that was somehow one of the most terrifying things John had heard.

John rounded on the detective again, demanding, "Why didn’t you call the police?"

Sherlock held up a placating hand. "Please, just..."

Fury-- that’s what was clawing its way up John’s spine. He was properly furious now as he roared, "Why do you _never_ call the police?"

As Sherlock watched, the timer hit two minutes and fifteen seconds. "Well, it’s no use now." And there was suddenly so much to say that hadn’t been said before. He licked his lips, unsure how to start.

John merely continued his rant, "So you can’t switch the bomb off. You _can’t_ switch the bomb off and you didn’t call the police." He had to turn away for a second, or he was sure he'd hit Sherlock.

When John turned back he found Sherlock looking at him more brokenly than he'd ever thought possible. "Go, John." Sherlock waved a hand towards the door and the tunnel beyond. "Go now." There was an unspoken _please_ in the repetition.

John shook his head, fist clenching and unclenching convulsively, “There’s no point now, is there, because there’s not enough time to get away; and if we don’t do this other people will die!” The timer was below two minutes now. John fought the urge to throw up, then pointed at Sherlock as an idea occurred to him. “Mind palace.”

“What?”

“Use your mind palace.”

Sherlock looked confused. “How will that help?”

John’s voice was high, just edging towards hysterical, “You’ve salted away every fact under the sun!”

Sarcasm intact despite the situation, Sherlock retorted, “Oh, and you think I’ve got ‘How To Defuse A Bomb’ tucked away in there somewhere?”

“Yes!” 

Deflating slightly in acquiescence, he shrugged. “Maybe.”

Sherlock pressed hard against his temples with his fingers, brow furrowed as he flew through facts. “Think.” John’s voice was imploring. “Think, please think.” It wasn’t working. John could tell almost immediately from how Sherlock’s fingers pressed harder and his head snapped from side to side. He was forcing it, and there was nothing there. “Think!” Sherlock gave a groan of pain and his hands fell away from his head, breathing heavily as he opened his eyes he could only look at John. The apology was plain on his face. John met his eyes in disbelief and said, “Oh my God.”

There was no reply Sherlock could give, so he instead bent over the detonator, frantically looking for something to do.

“This is it.” John stared into space and said again, “Oh my God.”

Sherlock stopped his frantic motions and looked up from his knees. “I’m sorry.”

John screwed his eyes tightly shut, almost feeling for one horrible second like there could be tears. He composed himself before looking back and asking more softly, “What?”

Sherlock’s eyes did start to tear up ever so slightly as he said, “I can’t…” He stopped and started again, “I can’t do it, John. I don’t know how.” He straightened up further, still kneeling on the floor in front of the detonator. “Forgive me”

John’s fists clenched of their own accord and he found himself becoming angry again. “ _What_?”

Sherlock raised his hands, imploringly, “Please, John, forgive me. For all the hurt that I caused you.”

“No.” John raised a finger between them. He grasped onto the one possibility that would make everything alright in the end. “No, no, no. This is a trick.”

“No.”

“Another one of your _bloody_ tricks.”

“No.”

God, he did think he might cry. “You’re just trying to make me say something nice.”

Sherlock chuckled in spite of himself and insisted, “Not this time.”

“It’s just to make you look good even though you behaved like…” He lost his composure then and had to grip a handrail before continuing in a low growl, “I wanted you not to be dead.”

“Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for.” Sherlock’s voice became strangled and he ripped his scarf off, dropping it onto the floor as if it was the source rather than emotion. “If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there and you’d still have a future,” the full truth was hard to say, but he made himself get the words out, “with Mary.”

“Yeah.” John pointed to underscore the words, “I know.” His face twisted again and he had to look away before he could say, “Look, I find it difficult.” He was a soldier, damn it, they didn’t do things like this. Didn’t talk about things like this. “I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.”

“I know.”

He had to exhale a harsh breath and take a second before he was able to say, “You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known.” Almost choking on the words, he managed to get out in a rush, “Yes, of course I forgive you.” John knew if he looked at Sherlock any further he would lose his composure, so instead took a deep breath, gripped the cold metal of the car, and braced himself. Sherlock made a sound like a sob, and he kept his eyes resolutely closed and waited.

And waited. Surely it should have happened by now? 

Sherlock made another sound, but it didn’t quite sound like he was crying. In fact, it sounded like… John opened his eyes and found Sherlock giggling helplessly, the timer on the detonator rapidly flicking between 1:28 and 1:29.

John’s mouth dropped open in shock, working soundlessly for a second until he managed to get out, “You…”

Sherlock cackled then, unable to contain himself as he said, “Oh, your face!”

“...utter”

“Your face! I totally had you.”

John exploded properly, “You cock! I knew it! I knew it! You f…”

Talking over the other man, Sherlock continued to laugh as he said, “Oh, those things you said… such sweet things! I never knew you cared.” Which wasn’t true, of course. There had been things said in the days after he got back. Words of understanding and forgiveness, even love.

John stabbed a finger in the air as he threatened, “I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this…”

Still helplessly giggling, Sherlock raised two fingers in a mockery of the salute. “Scout’s honour.”

“... to anyone. You _knew!_ You knew how to turn it off!”

Taking pity, Sherlock crouched down and indicated the side of the detonator. “There’s an off switch.”

“What?” Surely he’d misheard. It couldn’t possibly be that simple.

“There’s _always_ an off switch. Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there’s an off switch.”

John’s knees felt weak and he staggered backwards against the railing. He took two gulping breaths of air before he said, “So why did you let me go through all that?”

“I didn’t lie altogether. I’ve absolutely no idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off.”

There was a noise in the tunnel and John looked out the window to find approaching torchlight and uniformed men. “And you did call the police.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I called the police.”

The absolutely infuriating bastard. “I’m definitely gonna kill you.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock smiled winningly at John, “killing me? That’s so two years ago.”

John barked out a surprised laugh despite himself. Then the armoured policemen were gingerly opening the door of the compartment and there was a crackling of radios. Sherlock held up his hands to indicate his general innocence and said something quickly to the lead officer, pointing back at the detonator.

He smiled back at John and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here. In case they get blown up trying to defuse the thing.” Of course the words were said in earshot of the bomb squad.

Mycroft met them on the surface, face showing that familiar mix of concern and exasperation that was so often fixed on his brother. He ushered them beyond a police cordon set up several blocks away. “We’re calling it a gas leak. Terribly inconvenient timing given the late sitting.” The ever present Anthea was tapping away on her Blackberry next to a car. Mycroft’s mouth twisted as if he was tasting something bitter and there was a reproach in his voice as he said, “I trust you’ve made your point?”

Sherlock gave a curt nod and Mycroft’s face relaxed marginally.

He tapped his umbrella on the ground, twice and continued, “Very good. Then, thank you, both. The Prime Minister is, of course, very grateful.” He gave what, for Mycroft, constituted a proper smile while still at work, “As am I.” 

Anthea opened the door of the car and Sherlock pushed past his brother and got in, sliding across the back seat to make room for John.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John shrugged, then followed the detective.

Once the car door slammed, John turned to Sherlock and asked, “Did we just take Mycroft’s ride?”

Sherlock smiled and leaned back into the comfortable seat. “He’ll have others.”

They drove in silence towards Park Lane, but there was something Mycroft had said that was niggling at John. Eventually, he asked softly, “What point were you trying to prove? If that was because of some points scoring between you and Mycroft, Sherlock, I will leave you. We almost died.”

“But we didn’t, and we kept Parliament from being blown up by the North Koreans and saved a number of arguably innocent lives.” Sherlock said the first looking out of the window, but then turned to the other man. “You needed to get angry with me, John. Properly angry. I didn’t necessarily think in advance that standing inside a giant bomb would be the opportune moment, but I meant everything I said. I am truly sorry for how I hurt you.”

It wasn’t what John had expected. He made to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.

“I know Mycroft explained everything, and I wasn’t well, but…” Sherlock slid a hand tentatively across the seat and took John’s in his grasp, “you’ve been so good.”

John looked down at their hands, then back up to Sherlock’s face. “Oh, you mad…” He trailed off before he said something insulting and settled for giving the hand a squeeze instead. “Just never do that again, alright?”

“I think I can safely promise to never take you inside a giant underground bomb again.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Sherlock.” And he would, oh, he’d tie up Sherlock in the flat and call bomb disposal if he had to.

Sherlock smiled broadly, leaning over for a quick kiss as he murmured, “That’s my blogger.”

For a first case back, John reflected, it could have gone worse.


End file.
